Wednesday, November 21, 2007

Worst of NYC Craigslist: Self-Loathing Bike Love

The typical bike-related missed connection usually involves either somebody using a bicycle as a pretense to get someone else's attention, or else somebody who has noticed a bicycle which has been used as a pretense to get their attention. Essentially, the bike is serving the same purpose as a haircut, a pair of shoes, a tattoo, or even a book--it's some tuft of brightly-colored feathers which is displayed in order to attract a mate. In this case, however, something much more insidious is going on. I hope this is one of those fake posts because the reality is too much to bear:

It was on 57th st. last week in the AM. You were probably getting fed up with the gridlock and opened your cab door right into my moving bicycle. You put a taxi-yellow dent in my handlebars and a huge purple bruise on my arm. A vulgar expletive exploded from my lips and a UPS driver unloading packages from the van in front of us started to laugh at me. As I was checking my arm for fractures and straightening out the wheel which you had knocked out of place, I began to well with anger...that is, until I saw you get out of the cab.

You had that hurried look of tension in your body that comes from a busy professional woman who is unaware of her own striking beauty. Your hips moved wildly from side-to-side as you stepped toward me to apologize hurriedly before walking off in your high-heels, your briefcase swinging gaily with the youthfully relaxed movement of your arm. I wanted to be angry, to yell, but I could only mumble something like "It happens" or "everything is great." All I saw as you walked away was the line of your legs and the curve of your shoulder. You looked like a carefully crafted precision instrument. Your skin reminded me more of the hard shine of steel than the delicate flesh of a woman.

You could have shot me in the guts with a gun right there, and I would only pray that I could taste your lips just once before the last beat of my heart.

You may or may not be aware that there is such a thing as a "self-hating cyclist." Curcumstances have somehow conspired to convince these people that their passion for cycling is not only less important than other aspects of their lives, but that it is something dirty and wrong. Consequently, like compulsive masturbators, they practice their loathsome habit furtively and only during stolen moments--often in the wee hours of the morning, long before their friends, families, and loved ones have arisen. Many are even forced to hide their bicycles and bike-related purchases like a teenager hides a dirty magazine under a mattress. Popular hiding places for bicycles include basements, poorly-secured bike rooms in apartment buildings, overpriced storage units, and--most depraved of all--outside.

What we have here is a self-hating cyclist. (And this is not only apparent from the fact that he's got an FSA carbon stem and a pair of wing bars on a 13 year-old Cannondale.) After being doored, he was indignant--and rightfully so. However, as soon as he saw that the doorer was an attractive woman his resolve melted like Pastali on a mountainous descent. Why? Because he is insecure. And insecurity breeds self-loathing. And self-loathing makes you stammer like a kid caught pilfering from the liquor cabinet after you're doored by some woman who's rushing to get to her Cyclists Suck meeting.

In a sense, dooring is the most insulting thing you can do to a cyclist. I'd rather be actively chased by an enraged motorist "Death Race 2000"-style than doored. At least the deranged motorist acknowledges that I exist. The doorer on the other hand is completely self-absorbed and oblivious. Cyclists do not exist in his or her reality. And there's no greater form of disrespect than non-acknowledgement.

If you're a non-cycling motorist and you happen to be reading this, here is the proper procedure for exiting your car into traffic in an urban environment:

--Pull all the way to the curb;--Check your rear-view mirror;--Check your side mirror;--Open door a sliver, stick something reflective outside, and check again like they do for guards in prison movies;--Close door;--Open it again and peek out like an adulterer hiding in a closet;--Close door;--Slide over console into other seat;--Exit onto the sidewalk.

Oh, yeah, and if you're in the middle of the street in traffic, STAY IN THE CAR!

This rider should not have let her get away with this, and the fact that he did means he's got a bigger case of Stockholm Syndrome than Patty Hearst. And even if her beauty was so great as to give him pause, he should not have then posted this entreaty once he had time to come to his senses. I mean, if he wants to degrade himself, that's one thing, but at least consider the rest of us. Plus, however attractive she may be on the outside, the fact that she is a doorer has opened the door to the ugliness of her soul.

The Craigslist writer's acting like a compulsive masturbator? I can't imagine anyone who'd write that as much of a ladies' man. Judging by his reaction, I'd sat that post-dooring blow-off was probably the most active exchange he's had with a woman since his mother died.

I'll agree that this guy should have stood up for himself as a cyclist, first and foremost. Still, the allure of the steel-skinned professional woman is undeniable. Hey, some people are into being abused...sure, that means they had a screwed up childhood, but it doesn't necessarily imply that they are insecure. Everyone likes to get slapped around once in a while...

I think the main indicator of his inadequacy as a cyclist is the fact that he didn't just kick the door of the taxi off as he rode by. Only that action would penetrate the steel skin of his beloved.

About 10 years ago, I was riding east on 57th St, in the 3 foot corridor between the parked cars and the traffic lane (aka the Door Prize Zone). Traffic was stopped, and ahead I saw a tall, thin, absolutely stunning young woman walking west towards a cab waiting mid-block.

She clearly saw me coming as we were headed directly towards each other for a good 10+ seconds, and we arrived at the cab at almost the same moment. I raised my palm, and said something like, "Wait" or "Hold it a second", but no, she just reached and swung the cab door open right in front of me.

I hit the brakes. As I was only coasting at about 8 mph, there really wasn't much danger, but I was rather pissed that she would deliberately (and potentially dangerously) throw an obstruction before me like that. It was like, fuck, I just didn't matter...

As she was getting in, I said, "What'd you do THAT for?", and she answered, without even looking at me, "Fuck off, asshole biker".

I slammed the door HARD on her dangling leg. I heard her SCREAM, the cabbie leaned on his horn (I guess that's how they communicate), and I got the hell outta there ASAP.

I think the Craig's List author is related to the Republican lawyer who got his face in the way of the Vice President's bird shot and apologized.

Poor guy -- the Craig's list author, not the Republican lawyer -- if he had been using a merkin for a top tube pad, he would have had a real conversation starter: "Wait, wait, let me show you my hairy Pista."

Who could resist that?

The only other explanation is that the missed connection missive isn't real; you stumbled on a striking screen writer's first draft of his letter to Penthouse. Even idled writers have bills to pay.

(Don't all of those letters begin "Dear Penthouse: I never thought this would happen to me" and then describe some unsual encounter? I mean, that's what I hear. I could be wrong. The only Penthouse I ever saw was a braille edition. Honest. I only read Bicycling Magazine. And I only read that for the interviews.)

There I was in NYC, riding my bike to my job at the pizza parlor, having moved from Kansas to make it big in the world of internet journalism, when all of a sudden, a taxi door opens into my path! I couldn't stop in time and slammed into the inside of the door. I fell, and not just onto the pavement, but for the leggy beauty that awaited inside. I picked myself up and started screaming and cussing. She cast her eyes downward in shame. "Oh, I am so sorry, what can I do to make it up to you?" she breathed at me in an almost whisper. That was when she looked up at me. I noticed that she wasn't looking down at the ground, but at my bulging lycra-clad crotch! She licked her lips and invited me into the backseat with her. I obliged. The bike was trashed, so I just left it where it lay, closed the door behind me and asked her where she wanted to go. "Park Avenue, driver, and step on it!" Soon I was in her warm embrace as our lips met and tangled. She pulled me tight to her. Her bosoms heaved under her designer dress. My hands were soon sliding up her inner thighs...

Dooooode, In my neck of the woods it is called STALKING and if convicted gets you some up close time with Da Brudders in da House, who will gladly love you to speak to them with those coo-ing descriptions and soft tones. Once out of the joint you will be ditching that harsh riding Cannondale for something with a sprung seat

I'm normally down on the whole concept of vehicle on biker violence, but assuming this wasn't just a striking TV writer just trying to keep his chops honed I'm going to go out on a limb and suggest that the best place for this cat would be under the wheels of a cement truck.

From the comfort of your keypad, you have once again sorted out a mis-directed soul. Point this lowly pers-484174599@craigslist.org handle to your recent blog and save him from another 2 years of ongoing "therapy" with a most uncertain outcome.

Instead, you will be rewarded with updated full reveal shot of a newly taped (perhaps fully) Cannondale and revelations about the nuances of a level seat.

Myself...if and when I find myself in NYC, I suspect I might have to reimburse the taxi driver for damages rendered when a red 13 year old Cannondale with a black FSA stem met a most unfortunate door...Ciao!

Once that woman sees the CL post, and surely a woman as attractive as her reads the missed connections religiously, she will fall immediately and permanently in love with our bruised hero. He should post those carbon handlebars for full retail value on the CL bicycle page immediately so that he will have some money to take the cold bitch out when she calls.

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About Me

While I love cycling and embrace it in all its forms, I'm also extremely critical. So I present to you my venting for your amusement and betterment. No offense meant to the critiqued. Always keep riding!